


Then Janus Flips His Coin

by Zanne



Series: My Bloody Valentine Crossover [2]
Category: My Bloody Valentine (movie), Supernatural
Genre: AU, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-07
Updated: 2011-06-07
Packaged: 2017-10-19 21:50:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/205584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zanne/pseuds/Zanne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Tom woke one cold day in March, the scent of ash and salt strong in the frigid air.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Then Janus Flips His Coin

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to yasminke for beta-ing! All mistakes remaining are mine. This is a sequel to [Men in the Mirror](http://zannes.livejournal.com/57276.html). Kripke owns the Winchesters and MBV belongs to whomever owns that idea; let's say Lionsgate for legalities.

  
Tom woke one cold day in March, the scent of ash and salt strong in the frigid air. He blinked slowly, watching his breath fall in smoky plumes from his mouth, wreathing his head in wisps of fog as he tried to force his fractured brain into some sort of cohesive shape, to make sense of the world around him.

But the lamp at his feet revealed only walls of dark, damp earth closing in.

For a brief moment his heart stilled. In that brief second when the blood froze in his veins, he was sure he was back in the mines – sure he was lost in those endless miles of passageways, and smothered beneath tons of earth, with no way out but his own death.

Trapped in the dark with Harry right beside him.

Tom’s breath came faster, and he clawed at the walls around him. He stopped only when a light suddenly shone down from above, spotlighting him within its merciless and unforgiving circle of brightness.

A small keening sound escaped him, but he swallowed it before it grew completely out of control, not wanting to draw the attention of whatever it might be above him – _oh God, please, not Harry; don’t let it be Harry_ – staying as still and silent as a statue.

“Dean?” The voice from above hesitated before rising in pitch, the tone sharper with a slight hint of apprehension. “Dean? Are you okay?”

The light shifted downward and the swirling shapes and colors coalesced into a familiar shape. Tom’s panic was squeezed out on a breathless exhale of relief, falling in jagged shards at his feet.

He stared up at the tall figure bending over the edge of the hole; the man’s face was tight with concern and looked just a little lost, as if what calmness he had might snap with the wrong answer.

Tom smiled hesitantly, his heart hammering a staccato rhythm as it began to fall into its more familiar refrain.

“Sam….” 

                                                                    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sam looked different than he had Inside: his face was fuller, and those dark, haunted hollows beneath his eyes were gone. The gaunt figure from the institution that had been so imposing even in its silence had gained some muscle, and now appeared larger than life with the picture of health he presented.

At first glance, Sam looked almost…normal.

But when Tom looked more closely, he realized it was nothing more than a well-presented mask, that gossamar-thin fragility still crystal sharp under the layers of muscle that now sheathed it. Beneath the shifting colors of Sam’s irises, Tom still saw the Sam he had known so well – the broken Sam that was held together by the hope of a memory, by a long dead brother whose shadow was strong enough to maintain its shape only in Sam’s head.

Tom only realized he’d been staring when Sam stiffened under his gaze, his hands twitching in the faintest echo of those nervous gestures that had kept them endlessly dancing at night when Sam had been particularly agitated.

But Tom couldn’t look away, too mesmerized by the bright, fevered gleam of Sam’s eyes in the reflected glow of the flames from the grave, and Sam’s body went bowstring taut.

“Home,” Sam murmured to himself. “We need to go home.”

As Sam tore his gaze away, his shoulders hunching into the depths of his jacket, Tom thought he saw the first faint crack pierce that shimmering blue-green surface. 

                                                                          ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tom didn’t know how they made it to the car, the smoke and flame-filled air of the cemetery bringing to mind all those Sunday school stories of Hell, tormented souls burning forever in silent agony. As Tom had grown older, his image of Hell had transformed from fiery pits into damp, coal-dusted burrows winding deeper into the earth, the scent of clean air and the feeling of the sun on his skin nothing more than a wistful dream.

He wondered if brimstone was really just the scent of failure, of forgotten hopes and a dubious future.

Tom’s grip tightened on the steering wheel as if it were his life preserver when he noticed the nervous spasms of Sam’s hands as they clenched in his lap. Sam’s eyes kept darting over to Tom as if he were afraid of what he’d find, as if some dark specter might occupy the space beside him. His face briefly softened with relief when he caught sight of the man sitting behind the wheel. That momentary assurance dissipated whenever Sam noticed the way the leather jacket hung awkwardly on Tom’s frame, or the way Tom drove the Impala, lacking any finesse with such a large vehicle.

When Tom slammed on the brakes at the suddenness of a red light, Sam’s hands flared open like broken starfish, revealing fingernail crescents cut deeply into his palms.

Sam murmured something unintelligible to the window, unable to look at the man driving. “Sssshh, ssshhh….” His mumblings petered off into nonsensical noises as he reached out with blood caked under the wedges of his nails, giving his fingers a false color even as he shakily stroked the dashboard.

Once the light turned green, Tom just pressed harder on the gas, having no idea where they might be going. 

                                                                   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They drove on, the silence heavy with meaning between them, so unlike the comfortable quiet they had forged for themselves at the asylum. Tom observed Sam from the corner of his eye, the flickering flashes of the streetlamps that slid over his face revealing something different with every burst of light.

Tom wondered what Sam saw when he looked at him.

As the carved their way through the darkness, following the trail of broken white lines down the center of the road, Tom could see Sam growing increasingly agitated. The tics were almost constant now - the spasms of his hands, the twitches in his cheek, the soft pained noises that unwittingly spilled from his mouth.

“Stop!” Sam snapped. He pressed his hands flat against the side window and the dash - two meaty butterflies, wide-winged and panicked. “Stop right now!”

It took Tom a moment to process the command – surprised as he was by Sam’s sudden outburst - and the car jerked to a halt seconds before his brain made the connection, as if the vehicle had a mind of its own.

Sam was out the door and pacing restlessly along the roadside, eyes as hollow and unfocused as they’d been Inside. He wrung his hands, mindless of the faint popping as his joints protested the action.

Tom hesitated, feeling safer alone inside the car than out in the dark with this strange Sam stalking back and forth. But he knew Sam was waiting for him, so he pushed open the car door and made his way over to where Sam was walking.

“Dean, Dean…” Sam kept mumbling, eyes darting over the darkened hillside as his hands tied themselves in knots. The air was stale and still as they stood opposite each other, and Tom could hear the hard, heavy breaths Sam was panting out.

“I’m here, Sam,” Tom reassured him, not really knowing what else to say.

It seemed as if the infrastructure of Sam’s body collapsed in on itself at Tom’s words, and Tom feared Sam might crumble to the ground like the Colossus of Rhodes - the great giant felled by its own internal weaknesses. Tom wished that he still had the power to soothe Sam, but things had changed since Tom had last seen him, and his mere presence was no longer enough.

“No!” Sam shouted, sharp and sure, and Tom was startled by the sudden brittle snap of the glass in the door behind him. He glanced over his shoulder to see the lines carved into the window, a shattered sunburst of whiteness etched in the glass.

“I need you, Dean!” Sam insisted, hands tugging at his hair. “Dean…” Sam’s voice petered off, a strangled sound of want, and Tom itched to touch him, to make things right.

“You broke your promise,” Sam scolded, his gaze directed off somewhere to the right, and Tom wasn’t exactly sure who was the focus of Sam’s ire. Tom had made promises once upon a time, but he was sure Dean had sworn his own vows while he was able.

Sam turned away from him, his large frame folding in on itself, and his chastisements broke into nonsensical sounds. Tom stared at his shoes when he felt something bump against his legs, and he watched tiny pebbles bounce off the asphalt.

Tom blinked, his breaths short and shallow, trying to remember what he used to do to stem the tide of Sam’s sorrow back when they were only whole together.

Sam wasn’t supposed to be like this anymore; Tom thought he had made things better after he’d faced his own demons in the mine. Sam was supposed to be happy, the broken cup Tom had pieced back together into a stronger shape, something new and different, and altogether Tom’s.

Just as Sam had done for him.

“It was a mistake. I don’t…I don’t think I’m supposed to be here.” The words slipped out as rough as gravel, Tom’s throat too tight to speak clearly.

At the sound of his voice, Sam relaxed, his eyes shifting to sanity for one bright, shining moment. The soft patter of rocks skittering across the roadside faded, the rhythmic underscore to their conversation now silent.

Tom knew what had to be done.

He stood taller, threw back his shoulders, and dug through his own memories of Sam’s stories, trying to recall anything that might be of value. When Tom next spoke, he pitched his voice lower, rubbing the edges with sandpaper to add texture to his words.

“Get back in the car, Sammy. We’ve got work to do.”

  
 


End file.
